


Domestic Dispute

by AstroGirl



Category: Farscape
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's more than one kind of physical connection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Dispute

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the gap between season 3 and season 4, with spoilers for late season 4.

The pain of missing Aeryn is becoming unbearable, an actual, physical ache. It's ridiculous. He shouldn't have to put up with physical pain any more; it's one of the perks of not having a body.

"For god's sakes, John," he whispers, below -- he hopes -- the level of the human's consciousness. "_Do_ something about it!"

It's probably flattering himself to think it has anything to do with him -- he knows from long experience how resistant to suggestion Crichton can be -- but for once John actually seems to know what's best for him. _Frell_, he thinks, loud and distinct, _Lyin' here feelin' sorry for myself isn't going to bring her back. Maybe if I just..._ And slides a hand beneath his shirt, slipping it into the waistband of his pants.

Aaah. Yes, that's more like it. John carefully isn't thinking of Aeryn, isn't thinking of anything but the motion of his hand, and for the first time in all this time they've been alone together, it truly feels as if they _are_ alone together. No Aeryn, no wormholes, no aching, gut-gnawing guilt. Just a wonderful sense of... focus. Amongst other things, of course.

He feels _connected_ to John's body, at one with it in a way he's only capable of in unguarded moments such as this. John's hand has become his hand, its gliding motions propelled by both of them at once. John's pleasure is his pleasure, smooth and sweet, and oh, so good.

He realizes he is lying beside John now, in the internal landscape that they share. The two of them rest on shimmering sheets, bathed in dim, mellow light. And it is Harvey's hand on John, now, John's hand on Harvey, his cooling suit and leather glove no obstacle, both blurred to unreality in movie-screen soft-focus. They gasp in unison.

John's eyes are open, staring directly into his. "H-Harvey? Wha--?"

"John... Yes, let me..."

He strokes harder, each movement he makes coming back to him, sensations amplified through the feedback loop of John's body. Building and building... magnificent physicality... magnificent control...

They come together. Of course. Harvey lets out a wild whoop, John a gasping sob, as fireworks burst overhead and waves crash on the beach which has suddenly materialized around their bed.

John rolls onto his side, his face turned away, and Harvey slides over, spooning up against him, his chin tucked tight against John's neck. He knows that John can feel him: the warmth of his body, the weight of the arm he slides around the human's waist. An illusion so perfect it's no longer an illusion.

"John, I--" He's eager to tell Crichton... everything. How happy he is, how pleased at this gesture of acceptance, how much he loves... his home. How he knows they can be like this now, and not need Aeryn. Not need anyone.

But John's body convulses beside him, the taste of bile rising in his throat. He screams, a noise that starts out wordless, but becomes "Get the hell _away_ from me!" as he flings out his arm and sends Harvey flying from the bed with a violence that would break the laws of physics, if only they applied here.

The beach becomes somewhere dark and dank as Harvey crashes to the ground, his head cracking against the corner of the dumpster. It _hurts_, all of John's internal pain smashing hard into Harvey's non-existent skull.

He props himself up against the cold, fetid wall of the dumpster, hands raised in supplication, and smiles his most ingratiating smile. "John! My friend! What's wrong? We had fun, didn't we? There's no harm..."

"Harm? _Harm?_" John's eyes are blazing, his face a mask of rage. "Harvey, you _disgust _me. Hell, _I_ disgust me!"

"But--"

"_But_," says John. "But. But that's not what you did wrong." He stalks forward, and now he's holding Winona, pointed squarely at Harvey's battered head. "Do you know what you did wrong, Harvey?"

John's emotions are so strong he can only recoil from them. Mutely, he shakes his head.

"Well, then let me spell it out for you. Just so we're completely clear. Listen up good, now, you parasitic bastard: if you ever, and I do mean _ever_, take over any part of my body, for any reason, ever again, I _will_ kill you, if I have to put a bullet in my own brain to do it. And that, _my friend_, is a promise."

"But, John, I was only--"

"Harvey. Are. We. Clear?" The pulse pistol jerks closer with every word, coming to rest at last pressed up against the tip of Harvey's nose.

He swallows hard. "Yes. We're clear."

"Good." The gun disappears into a holster. Crichton wipes a weary arm across his forehead and pinches his nose between thumb and forefinger, wincing. "Now, just... go away, will you?"

Harvey hesitates, wanting, somehow, to explain. Wishing, perhaps for the first time, that John could know him the way he cannot help but know John.

"Go_ away_!" And suddenly Winona is back out, firing wildly past his ear.

So he goes. And he curls up into a ball in the dark basement of John's subconscious until the rest of John's mind is calmer and the memory of this incident, unwanted and unexamined, fades away from both of them.

Eventually, he forgets all about Crichton's "promise."

Crichton doesn't.

But it's okay, really. Because it isn't all that bad to be controlled... And once Scorpius comes and changes him, even the loneliness no longer hurts.


End file.
